


Restoring Peace

by xcourtney_chaoticx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, M/M, Medical, Medicine, Platonic Soulmates, Pre-Slash, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcourtney_chaoticx/pseuds/xcourtney_chaoticx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson has put plenty of people back together after wounds and injuries, but none of those people were ever as important as Sherlock Holmes. After that's what doctors are for right? To fix people?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restoring Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Written for theheadlessgirl on tumblr for the Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange. My prompt was "John makes use of equipment/utensils he has access to in the medical field involving Sherlock’s body. Any rating." I hope this doesn't disappoint!! 
> 
> Angst and fluff. I'm also really hoping I got most of the medical stuff right.. I kept it a bit vague so as not to screw up too bad.......

 

To me the ideal doctor would be a man endowed with profound

Knowledge of life and of the soul,

Intuitively diving any suffering or disorder of whatever kind,

And restoring peace by his mere presence.

-Henri Amiel

xJWxSHx

Sherlock had many quirks, all of them odd and some of them dangerous. One of the ones John would consider dangerous was his hatred of hospitals. The only reason Sherlock frequented St. Bart’s was because the morgue and lab were there, and Molly pretty much gave him free reign to do as he wished. He refused, however, to obtain medical treatment there or at any hospital.

“You’re a doctor, John,” he said matter-of-factly one day, “You can take care of me here if I need it.”

So, as if this were a perfectly normal suggestion, John began squirreling away medical supplies from the surgery and St. Bart’s. He had a fairly impressive collection put together after only a month, which was good because that’s when it happened the first time.

They were chasing a suspect when they finally cornered him in an alley, Lestrade right behind them. Sherlock tried to coax him into surrender but to no avail. Instead, the suspect lashed out, cutting Sherlock’s left forearm before being subdued.

“Looks nasty,” Lestrade stated, “You should go to hospital to have it looked at.”

The consulting detective pouted, so John piped up, “I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”

Apparently thinking that meant John would take him to the hospital, Lestrade let him take Sherlock home. Once there, he sent the detective right into the bathroom, ordering, “Get your shirt off and try to stop some of the bleeding while I fetch a painkiller and sutures to fix that up.”

“John, I don’t think that-“

“Just do as I say, Sherlock!” he snapped.

The doctor didn’t wait to see if Sherlock would; he needed his supplies. He was almost surprised to see the detective actually following his instructions. The younger man was perched on the edge of the tub, holding a towel to his forearm, his cut shirt lying discarded on the tile. There was something like an apology in his eyes when he looked up at John. The doctor sighed and got to work.

He pulled the towel away from Sherlock’s arm and carefully washed the gash to get everything out of it. After that, he injected a local anesthetic to numb the arm before he stitched it up. He was threading the needle for sutures when Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible.

“Sorry? What was that?” John asked.

Pale eyes locked onto John’s deep blue, and Sherlock said, just loud enough to be heard, “Thank you, John.”

The doctor just smiled at the detective and told him gently, “This’ll feel weird…”

Sherlock watched intently as John worked, apparently interested in the way the needle passed the thread through his skin. John was quiet the whole time, just trying to a good job stitching up his best friend. When he finally finished up, he covered it with a bandage, saying, “You know what to do with this. Keep it dry and let me check it every so often so I can make sure you haven’t done anything to it, alright?”

“Of course.”

John just smiled and clapped him on the shoulder before cleaning up the bathroom, putting everything back in its proper place. (A disorganized doctor is no good to his patients, after all. One thing in the wrong spot can be the difference between life and death.) He took everything and put it away in his closet, thinking idly, _Well, I hope I never have to do that again. At least not in here anyway…_  
This notion was, of course, completely and utterly ridiculous.

Instead, John continued to collect various pieces of medical equipment. After a year of living with Sherlock, he had in his possession an IV drip kit, several IV bags of various fluids, an oxygen tank and mask, dozens of syringes and drugs, multiple epi-pens, a tracheal tube, a wheelchair, two pair of crutches, a defibrillator, insulin, a cervical collar, and a spine board, as well as a Victorian-era trocar that he was quite sure he never wanted to use. He wasn’t even sure he would need most of it at all.

So, naturally, he ended up using most of it.

Sherlock would come home bruised and bloodied and dazed, and John would have to patch him up and fix him. He found himself using the blood pressure cuff and and the gauze and the bandages and the catheters (yes, catheters) and medicines and damn near everything. All to keep his friend alive.

“Y’know, Sherlock, one day something will happen to you that I won’t be able to fix here.”

“Then I suppose that means I’ll already be dead,“ he replied, “You can fix anything, John.”

It took a split second for the thought to whirl around John’s head and make him feel both very proud and very angry all at once. He suddenly slammed his hand on the table and then put his face in his hands, saying, “No, I can’t. You know that. I won’t let you die! Not here! Not anywhere! Not because you’re so much of a child you won’t go to the hospital!”

“Exactly,” he responded, leaning toward John, “I know you won’t let me die. Doctors in hospitals don’t care about another random face, a stranger. You know me. You actually _care_. You are the first person who has ever legitimately _cared_ about me. I might even go so far as to say you love me in some way. Therefore, I am safer here in 221B than I would be the finest hospital. I know this as well as I know my trade. You will always be able to fix me, John Watson.”

Sherlock then leaned back in his chair and continued reading his book as though he had not just said something utterly profound. Up until this point, John would have admitted, yes, that he liked Sherlock. They were best friends, coworkers, partners. He only just realized, however, that he did indeed love him.

Now, what kind of love it was exactly was a bit hazy, but it definitely was love. That fact was undeniable when he considered all he’d done for Sherlock… all he was willing to do for him. John would lay down his life for Sherlock because (as he suddenly comprehended) a life without Sherlock was impossible to imagine. He just couldn’t think of it.

It was nearly a month after that exchange that Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s and killed himself. John broke. His whole being just shattered as he knelt by Sherlock on the pavement, words tumbling from his lips, rain falling gently around them and mingling with the blood on the pavement. John was never sure if he cried or not. He may have been too shocked to do anything, too broken, too hurt. He was barely aware of Lestrade gently leading him away from Sherlock’s body and toward an ambulance. The detective inspector shooed away the paramedics and sat beside John, asking, “What happened, John? Tell me.”

“I… I couldn’t fix him, Greg,” he answered slowly, “I couldn’t fix him.”

He looked at Lestrade, now feeling tears in his eyes, and continued in a broken voice, “He trusted me to take care of him, and I… I failed. I didn’t even know he was hurting. I’m his best friend. I should know that. I-I should know wh-when he’s hurting like that. I sh-should know. Why didn’t he t-tell me? Wh-why d-didn’t he-?”

Lestrade just put an arm around him as he was overcome by emotion, his body shaking as loud, harsh sobs forced their way out. He didn’t care that people could hear his heart-wrenching wails. Sherlock was gone. There was little that mattered anymore.

John Watson soldiered on through the wake and the funeral and the burial, hiding his emotions behind the facade of the soldier, of the army doctor who lost so many men that he seems completely unaffected by another one. (The reality behind that façade is that each death only hurts more.) For three years, John hid behind that mask, pretending each remark about Sherlock didn’t hurt as much as it did. For three years, he lived alone at 221B Baker Street, never cleaning it out, not getting rid of even a single thing that even smacked of Sherlock. He tried to get out and go on a few dates, but no one really caught his fancy. The only one he really liked was Mary Morstan. She was lovely and kind and so wonderful, but she knew that even after all that time (two-and-a-half years), John was still grieving for Sherlock.

“You’re still hurting, John, so much. I can tell you loved him a lot, and I don’t care in what way that was. I wish someone could love me even a fraction of how much you loved him. Look at the place, I mean… you’ve kept a shrine to him! You love him… and even I can’t compete with him just yet. I do still care about you, though. I still want to be friends with you, to see you, to know how you’re doing, to have lunch and coffee and drinks and everything, alright?”

Mary did her best to heal those wounds in John’s heart, slowly but surely, until one day, three years after Sherlock died, those wounds were ripped violently open when Sherlock showed up at his door.

The man was wild-haired, bruised, bloody, in obvious pain, and in desperate need of medical attention. John quickly shoved his emotions aside ( _painjoygriefjoyangerjoyshock_ JOY) as Sherlock slumped to the floor. He checked for any injuries to the neck and spine before moving him to his own bed. There, he stripped him less than carefully (read: cut off his clothes) and worked on the various cuts and scrapes he found littering the pale, bruised skin. He set up an IV drip to help the dehydration, cleaned the wounds and dressed them, checked his heart, and wrapped a swollen ankle. He also gave him a bit of oxygen, then covered him up with his blankets. Once he felt confident he could do no more, He pulled up a chair and sat at his bedside, willing himself not to cry. He could not stop himself from reaching out and taking the thin hand in his own.

“ _Sentiment_ …”

John cast his eyes up onto Sherlock’s face. The pale eyes were half-lidded and tired, his hand weakly gripping John’s.

“You’re back,” John whispered.

“Yes, of course.”

“For good?”

“I don’t want to leave again.”

“I don’t understand. I saw you fall. I saw your… your body. I buried you!”

“And I am sorry, John. I am so sorry, but it had to be done. You are a wonderful doctor but a terrible liar. I needed the world to believe I was dead. Your account, your grief, wouldn’t be believable if you didn’t believe it yourself. I only wanted to protect you, I swear.”

“How did you do it?”

“A tale for another time. I don’t think I’m up to it now.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John replied with a sniff, “You’re back now. That’s all that matters.”

“Of course I’m back,” Sherlock said in a rough voice, “No one can fix a broken Sherlock like you, John.”

“You’re not broken.”

A short bark-like laugh escapes the detective.

“You have no idea what I’ve been through. What I’ve done.”

“Yeah, because I sure had a laugh here thinking you were dead!” John snapped.

“Oh, yes, and my time abroad knowing you were safe as long as I stayed away were a _holiday_ ,” Sherlock spat in return.

They both fell silent for a moment before Sherlock spoke up softly, “I only did it because… I care about you. I trust and care for you above everyone else. I… I was lost without you. Almost died four times from illness or injury without you. This might have been the fifth.”

John’s voice was choked as he said, “I’d never let you die.”

“I know. That’s why I came here. You can always fix me.”

The doctor felt tears rolling down his face.

“You were dead. I can’t fix that.”

“Yes you can. I haven’t died once since I met you. As I said, you’re a wonderful doctor.”

He said it with such certainty that John couldn’t stand it. He choked out, “Oh, you _arse_ ,” before being overcome by sobs, collapsing against Sherlock’s bed and just crying as hard as he could. The detective’s other hand gently rested on the back of his head, stroking the now graying strands.

“Oh, I’ve missed you, John. I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured.

When John finally raised his head, he muttered, “You daft bastard…” as he stood up, still clutching Sherlock’s hand. He leaned over the younger man and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his forehead. Then, just as gently, he whispered, “Sherlock, as soon as you’re fully healed, I’m gonna clock you good.”

The detective chuckled quietly as the doctor checked his IV once more. He knew an ‘I love you’ when he heard it.


End file.
